


Merry Go Round

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [81]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya are back from their retirement celebration, but there is something very wrong.  Both Illya and Matt are having a hard time adjusting to their new lives.  Thankfully, Napoleon has just what they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Go Round

Napoleon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  Taking a deep breath, he looked at the sentence again and repeated it again and again in his head.  Shutting the book, he said the line out loud, pausing to search for any hidden meaning in the words.  But they were just words right now.  It was his job to make them more than that.  More than that, it was his job to make them as if he was the only one who could give them life.  He wasn’t expecting a lot of competition at the local theatre’s auditions , but you could never tell.

 _All My Sons_ was a good play and the role of Jim Bayliss was challenging.  Napoleon wanted to do it credit.  Yet he was unsure about how to approach it.  The role was that of a man, successful in his career as a doctor, but stifled by his wife and family and his discontentment at his job.  He wanted to be a medical researcher, but his wife refused to let him pursue what she felt was an unsure career and forced him to stay a practicing doctor.  To avoid his wife and family, Jim spent considerable time with his friends, hiding in their backyard as a way to avoid reality.  Napoleon’s problem was that he didn’t understand what it was like to be stifled in either his career or his married life.

Granted, he didn’t spend a lot of time working these days.  While he still held the deed to Vinea, he was more of a figurehead than anything else.  He stuck his nose in a couple of times a week, but that was about it.  He left the day-to-day stuff to his manager and staff.  He’d even hired a wine buyer to make the rounds to the vineyards.  He loved having his days to himself, either to work on a project, learn some new lines or just laze around aimlessly.

As for being stifled with his domestic life, that was a laugh.  Whatever you could say about Illya, he was not a domineering wife.  He was frustrating, unnerving and wildly unpredictable, but not stifling.  Right now, Napoleon would add infuriating to the list.  Things hadn’t been right since they got back from vacation.  Illya was okay during the day, but around three, he got moody and explosive.

Napoleon sat up and stretched his back.  Perhaps he was just trying too hard with Illya.  They used to see each other on and off during the day, but now they were together all the time… perhaps too much of the time.   

Outside the day was going to gray and cloudy to dark and cloudy, taking his mood along with it.  Napoleon could hear rain against the roof and a quick check out the bedroom window confirmed that it was raining.

He looked his watch and shook his wrist.   He had done nothing today of any import and it had still sped by.

“Is it that late?” he asked one of the cats sleeping on the foot of the bed.Fremir yawned and stretched, but didn’t bother to answer.  “How would you know?”  Napoleon laughed and leaned over to stroke the cat’s side.  “All you care about is eating and sleeping… a bit like me these days.”  The side rumbled to life beneath his hand and he continued to stroke the warm fur for a moment, just enjoying the sensation against his hand.

Standing, Napoleon stretched again and walked to the hall.  He glanced over at the staircase and then over to where it used to be.  It seemed like a hundred years ago that they’d remodeled the house.   He’d taken it from a postage-size hovel to a livable space.  Now there were times when he couldn’t even remember what the old place looked like. 

He smiled as he ran his hand over some of the original wainscoting.  There had been a time in his life when settling down had been the furthest thing from Napoleon’s mind.  He couldn’t even fathom wanting to stop his globetrotting ways until that moment he walked into the front door of Taste, playing the longest shot of his life.  Never had the stakes been higher.

He kept a hand on the rail as he walked down the stairs in the near dark.    It wasn’t odd that Illya hadn’t turned on any lights.  The man could still navigate in the dark.  Napoleon got to the bottom of the stairs and reached for a table light.

“Don’t.”

Illya’s voice startled him, but it really shouldn’t have.  Napoleon looked around the living room until he spotted a familiar silhouette.  The pink vapor lights from Taste’s parking lot gave Illya’s face a surreal appearance.  This had been his favorite spot as of late, sitting in the dark and staring at the restaurant they’d given away.  Napoleon had hoped Illya would find the process freeing.  It had had the opposite effect.

Napoleon placed a hand on Illya’s shoulder, only to have it shrugged away, but not before Napoleon could feel its tenseness.  “Anything I can do?”  Napoleon already knew the answer.

“No, I just don’t want to be bothered.”

“Can you believe it’s nearly six?”  Napoleon looked hopefully towards the kitchen, but Illya didn’t move.

“Who cares?”  There was such sadness and anger in the question.

“Well, me and my stomach, for one.  Can I fix you something?”

“Leave me alone.”

Napoleon sat down opposite his partner and studied him.  “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.  You know you can tell me anything, Illya.  You’ve been like this for weeks now.  We need to talk this out.”

“Nothing is wrong.  Everything is fine, absolutely fine.”  The words were sharp and clipped.

“You could have fooled me.”

“That’s not a great feat.”

Normally, Napoleon would have tossed the words aside, but these were said with such brutality that they hurt.  He got to his feet and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.  “You really are a piece of work, you know that?  I’m trying to help you, but God forbid you should acknowledge that or even me.”

“What is it going to take to make you leave me alone?  I don’t want company.  I don’t want clever conversation.  I just want to be –“

“Alone.  Fine.  I get it.”  Napoleon turned and walked to the closet.  Grabbing a coat, he walked out the door, shutting it none too gently behind him.  “Knock yourself out.”

The cold and wet hit him like a board.  Pulling the jacket on, Napoleon stood there for a moment, gauging the rain.  Through the darkened window he could barely make out Illya.   There were times when he just wanted to give Illya a good punch and then sit on him until he talked.  This was rapidly developing into a situation similar to the Skillet Incident, as it was now referred to.  It was as close to an all out nervous breakdown as Illya had ever come.  At the time, it had been Illya’s fear of losing Napoleon that had triggered the spells of possessiveness and anxiety.  Could it be that losing Taste was taking the blond right back to the beginning of that?

Napoleon quickly crossed the parking lot to Taste.  The building beckoned, warm and seductive, to him, much as it had all those years ago.  _I had so much to lose_ he remembered thinking.  One line in a restaurant review and a leap of faith on Napoleon’s part.  _And so little left to lose._  A shadow moved and for a moment, Napoleon felt a twinge of panic.  It was been nearly two decades since he’d been kidnapped by Velon and repeatedly tortured and raped.  In the end he had the last laugh.  Velon was dead and buried and Napoleon… he was not.

He tugged the fork-shaped handle of the left door – the right door handle was knife-shaped – and walked in.  Almost instantly, he was transported back to that moment when he first entered, scared and concerned about what he might or might not find.  Even if it were his Illya, the chances were great that the Russian would have no more to do with him that the moment he originally walked out of on Napoleon.

“Earth to Napoleon.  Earth to Napoleon.  Do you copy?”

Napoleon jumped slightly and looked at their _maître d_.  Roxanne was smiling at him in her usual kind fashion.   “Sorry, wool gathering.”  It had been years, decades, since she’d first greeted him.  Yet, as of late, he was seeing a change in her eyes.  He wanted to ask if there was trouble at home, but he no longer felt privileged to ask those types of questions.  He wasn’t exactly family anymore, more like a distant uncle.  The word play made him smile widely at her.

“It’s the weather for it. What can I do for you, Napoleon?”

“Room at the bar for a single?”

“For you?  Always.  Go on back.  I trust you know the way.”  She gestured open-handedly.

He smiled as he caught her hand and kissed the back of it lightly. “Yes, indeed, I do.”

It was only as he walked further into the restaurant that he realized the feel was different.  It didn’t have the gentle and calming ambiance it used to.  There was a vibration, partially due to the loud music and the even louder conversation.  Illya never played music in Taste, saying he’d rather have it be a quiet place where people could talk.   Gone was the old ambiance and here was something new, something younger.

It normally would have taken him a several minutes to actually make it into the bar and to his favorite seat at the far end, but the place was less than packed.  This was odd for a Saturday night.

The price of living in a small town was knowing everyone and them knowing you.  As social a creature as Napoleon was, he thrived under those conditions.  Now there were more unfamiliar faces than ever before.  He stopped and made casual conversation with a couple of people before finally sliding into his usual seat.  There was already a scotch waiting for him.  Stella was fast if nothing else.

“Stella, my sweet, you are…”  He trailed off as the young girl, no, woman, turned to him.  From the back, she looked the same as always, but when she turned, it was obvious she was very pregnant.  “Oh, my word… really pregnant.”

She laughed and patted her stomach.  “Yeah, the twins have sort of kicked it into overdrive.  Frankie can’t wait.  He’s not the only one.”

“And when are you due?”

“In two months.”

“I keep telling her she’s going to need a service cart to put her tummy on by then,” Celeste teased as she polished a glass.

“Are you suggesting that I look uncomfortable?”

“No, you look like you’re carrying a Volkswagen.”  Celeste winked at Napoleon.

“Well, at least for the first time, I can tell the two of you apart.” There was movement to his right and Rocky sat down beside him.  “What will you have, my boy?  Wine?  Something harder?”  Napoleon signaled Celeste over.

“Sadly, just some tonic water with a splash of Rose’s Lime in it.”  He sighed and massaged his right arm, which was in a sling.  “I’m still on pain pills.  No alcohol.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm-wise or otherwise?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yeah, the arm is getting better.”

“And the otherwise?”  Napoleon asked as Celeste placed Rocky’s tonic water in front of him and plopped a bowl of homemade chili-dusted cheese puffs down.  Illya had served this a long time ago and Napoleon was thrilled that it was making a comeback.  He popped a few into his mouth and chewed.  There was just the right balance of heat and crunch.  “Wow, these are great.  I think they are even better than Illya’s, but don’t tell him that.”

“No chance.  I haven’t seen Chef since you two got back.  He’s been avoiding me… us, I guess.”

“Is that the cause of the otherwise not being better?”  As opposed to Roxanne, Rocky was family.  “I noticed that I haven’t been seeing much of you two.  What’s going on?”

“Mr. S, do you believe the more you love someone, the more they make you crazy?”

“Absolutely.  Illya’s been making me crazy for years and not always in a good way and vice versa.  What is wrong, Rocky?”

Rocky nodded to a small table in the corner.  “Could we?”

“Absolutely.  Shoulder bothering you?” he asked as they changed places.

“No, I just wanted a bit of privacy.” Rocky looked around.  “You know how this place is.”

“Okay, now you are scaring me.  What is going on?”  Napoleon automatically dropped his voice.

“It’s Matt.  He’s been…”  Rocky clenched his left fist and shook it.  “Grrrr.  I thought when you guys turned Taste over to us, it would be a fabulous opportunity for Mattie to spread his wings.”

“And?”

“He’s become a tyrant, Mr. S.”  Rocky sipped his drink.  “Before Chef worried about the day-to-day stuff like bills and standing orders and all the small crap that most people don’t even think about.  It’s the daily stuff that’s making Matt crazy.  He gets all wound up in that and can’t concentrate on his cooking.  That gets him frustrated and he’s taking it out on everyone here.  I don’t know how Chef did it and made it look so easy.” 

Napoleon smiled slowly.  “It wasn’t.  You just didn’t see him stressing out.  And I do believe you have answered a question I’ve had as of late.”

“What’s that?”

“Illya has been moping around ever since we got back from vacation.  He was fine away from here, but now he’s giving Genghis Khan a run for his money.   Taste is so close and yet… he can’t get here anymore.  It’s giving him flashbacks to--”

“The skillet incident,” Rocky finished.  “He feels as if someone like Velon has kidnapped Taste?”

“I think so.  Matt’s been so careful not to bother Illya.”

“It’s not because he doesn’t want to.  Every day he says he wishes Chef would come into the kitchen and just be there to answer questions, but Matt knows that can’t be.  He feels like Chef has earned a rest.”

“For Illya to let go, he’s had to make a clean break and… It’s making him crazy,” they finished together.  Napoleon held up his drink and they clinked glasses.    “So what we need to do is figure out how to get Matt to a point what he feels free to talk to Illya about work, yet keep Illya from not plunging right back into it.”

“Good luck.  If you can figure a way out of this, you are a better man than me.  Just make it soon, while we still have some staff left.”  Rocky drained his glass and set it aside.  “I’m just sort of babysitting my wait staff these days.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Mattie is frustrated and he’s taking it out on everyone.  He’s been chewing on the waiters, the cooks, prep staff, everyone.  He and Henry even went at it the other day.”

“Henry?  Our Henry?”

“Yup.  If something doesn’t happen, he’s going to either drive them away or get them to a point where he’ll never get them back.”

“That explains Roxanne.”

“She’s been butting heads with Matt on a regular basis.  She’s been so used to doing things the way Illya wanted.  Matt’s been making some changes and she, for one reason or another, has been slow to adopt them.  We lose her, we lose the face of Taste.”

“Let me think about it.   Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.  What’s good on the menu tonight?”

                                                                                                ****

Napoleon let himself in quietly, but there was no need.  The living room was empty, as was the kitchen, the study, and the extra bedroom. 

“Well, at least he’s still willing to sleep with me.”  Napoleon wouldn’t admit under threat of torture that their love life had definitely cooled off since their return.  Napoleon had blamed it on a number of things, but the reality remained.   He and Illya hadn’t ‘connected’ like that in many weeks.

There was something very wrong and Napoleon was apparently the one to fix it.  Or at least he hoped he could.  When Illya got into these funks, it was hard to shift him.  He’d gone from happy and contented Chef to sullen and angry Rasputin and Napoleon didn’t really know why.

He locked up, set the alarm, and headed to bed.  The light was off, so he went into the bathroom to undress.  Reaching for his robe, he caught his reflection and sighed.  When had he gone gray?  When had the lines around his eyes deepened?  He looked at Illya and still saw the some slender blond who had walked quietly into Waverly’s office and sat beside him.

“Had I known then what I know now,” he murmured, his forefinger tracing a wrinkle.  He could never imagine what it would be like to be old.  The reality was that he never expected to live past forty.   Yet they both had and these were called the golden years.

A twinge in his back made him check his movement.  “Nothing golden about this,” he told his reflection as he pulled the robe on.  It was faded and threadbare.   _A little bit like him_ , Napoleon supposed.  Yet it was comfortable, familiar and, more importantly, it still kept him warm. 

He brushed his teeth, set out things for the morning and sighed.  It was time to plunge into battle.  Shutting off the light, he walked into the bedroom.  He didn’t need to wait for his night vision to kick in.  He knew where every piece of furniture was. 

Walking to the bed, he draped the robe over the footboard and slipped in between the sheets.  A few years ago and Illya would have been there, stopping just short of mauling Napoleon.  Now Napoleon lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling very alone even though Illya was just a few inches away.

“Did you eat?”  The question was so quiet, Napoleon wasn’t sure he’d heard it at first.

“Yes.  I had something at Taste.”  It would make sense that the first thing to enter Illya’s mind would be food.  Even retired, it was what he was all about.

“How was the crowd?”

“Noisy, but good. The place was packed.   I seem to recall the restaurant being a bit quieter when you were around.”  He kept staring at the ceiling.

“A younger crowd likes more noise.”  There was a heavy sigh.  “The days of fine dining are probably behind Taste now.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you?  The path Matt is taking Taste down?”

“No, it’s his place now.”  Bed sheets rustled and Napoleon turned his head.  He could see enough in the low light to know Illya was frowning.  “He can do what he wants with it.  He certainly hasn’t asked me for any help.”

 _That was it._ It confirmed his earlier thoughts that Illya was feeling like training wheels on a wagon.  “You feel useless now, don’t you?”

“What?  Of course not.”  But Napoleon hear the sad _yes_ in Illya’s voice

“Hmm, methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Last I checked, there was nothing lady-like about me.  I’m not so old that I can’t take you.”

While Napoleon was pleased that a bit of Illya’s spirit was back, it wasn’t enough.  “You feel like the world has moved on and left you behind in its wake.”

“No… I… yes.”  The admission had been as quiet as Illya’s initial question.

“Why is that bothering you so much?”

“It will sound stupid if I say it out loud.”

“Things like that usually do.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of?” Napoleon prompted.  The answer was not fast in coming, but Napoleon was not expecting otherwise.  He knew how hard it was for Illya to voice his feelings, even to him, even after all this time.

“Of you leaving me.”

“What?  That’s –“

“Stupid.  I know that, but there’s this voice that keeps gnawing at my brain.  In UNCLE, I was a good agent, capable and trustworthy, good in a fight and better in tight spots.  I watched your back and you counted on me being there to protect you.”

“You were a lot more than just that.” Napoleon’s voice was soft and encouraging.

“And I threw it out the window in a heartbeat and for a long time I was nothing.  I took an abandoned building and, with some luck, hard work and good friends, I built something great and I became someone again, someone who was as important and capable as I’d been as an agent.  Now, I’ve thrown that away, too, and I’m nobody again.”

Napoleon reached out to stroke Illya’s cheek, not surprised to find it damp.  Napoleon knew how much courage it had taken for Illya to admit this. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were an agent or a chef.  I fell in love with you, Illya Nichovetch.  And you are wrong.  You are somebody.” 

“Who?’

“Mine.”  Napoleon lifted Illya’s hand to his mouth and kissed Illya’s fingers.  “And no one will ever change that.  I have your initials on my ass to prove it.”

Illya smiled.  “You’re a blockhead.”  His voice lightened.

“Yes, but I’m your blockhead.”  Napoleon pulled him close and the resulting kiss was not lust driven as much as it was driven by love. 

“Yes,” Illya murmured.  “But it’s still hard.”

“Well, semi-hard,” Napoleon joked.  “Give me a minute.”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“I’m very serious.  You have always been a workaholic.  We need to find something to fill your time.  Maybe you should buy a new bike.  You haven’t tinkered in a while.”

“My fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be.”  Illya settled into Napoleon’s arms.  “It’s hard to hold onto the small pieces.”

“My memory isn’t what it used to be.  Everyone has something challenging them, Illya.  The trick is to fight back and make it work for you.  We have something a bit more pressing, though.” 

“What’s that?”

“Taste.”

“What?”  Illya pulled away slightly, but Napoleon pulled him back.

“Rocky says that not all is well in the kitchen.  Matt needs you in a big way, but he doesn’t want to bother you, figuring that you earned a rest.”

“So he’d rather run the place into the ground instead?”

“Yes, that’s how much he cares about you.”

“Taste isn’t worth Matt’s health and losing everyone we care about.  What can we do to fix this?”

“Can you be in the kitchen and not cook?”

“I can try.”

“Well, I have an idea.  It’s pretty crazy, but it might just work.”  Napoleon lowered his hand to let his fingers barely caress Illya’s stomach.  “But right now, I have another crazy idea and I would love to have your help in solving it.”  There was a responding rumble of pleasure and Napoleon inwardly sighed.  They were going to be all right.

 

                                                                ****

Napoleon watched Matt fiddle with his herb-crusted salmon.  Always on the thin side, Matt was all skin and bones now.  There were dark circles under his eyes and his complexion was waxy looking.  He was a poster child for the over-worked, stressed-out, exhausted workers of the world.

“When was the last time you slept, Matt,” Napoleon asked, pouring a bit more wine for all of them.

“Last night.”

“I’m sorry, let me rephrase that.  When did you sleep more than a couple of hours at a time?”

“About two months ago.”  Rocky awkwardly cut his fish with his fork and then speared a small piece.  He popped it into his mouth and chewed.  “This is very good, Chef.”

“Thank you.  What can I do to help you, Matt?” Illya said, his expression serious.

“ _Niente_ _._ _Io sto bene_.”

 _“No_ _, non siete,”_    Illya answered.  “You are far from fine and I am sorry I have been too blind to see it until now.  Is this why you’ve been avoiding us?”

“No, I’ve been busy with Taste and Rocky’s shoulder.  My poor _Cara_ , he can’t even dress himself yet.”

Napoleon sipped his wine and cleared his throat.  “Well, I have a suggestion, although it’s a bit of a leap and is going to take some thought by all of us.”

“What’s that?” 

“Thought?  It’s when you sit around and talk about things that come to your mind,” Napoleon said, then paused for the groan.  “Well, Illya is really good at teaching, but he’s not keen on taking on the role of culinary teacher at the college.  My thought is do something for the community.  I think on the second Saturday of the month  he should teach a free class at Taste.  Say, basic skills or a simple dish preparation.  It’s coming up on Thanksgiving, so maybe you could offer a class on cooking the perfect turkey or making different kind of stuffing.  We could offer the participants a discount on an app or somethig to get them to come back into the restaurant as diners.”

“And what would you be doing during all of this?  Sitting around and flirting with all the women?”

“It is one of my many skills.  I was thinking about offering something on wine tasting.  It would be a little something to keep our hands in the business.  Illya could assist me and I could assist him.”

Matt shook his head slowly.  “What about the cost, _Cara_?”

“Never worry about the cost, Matthew, my boy.  We will be happy to bankroll the thing until it gets going.  It would be great advertising.   Of course it would put Illya in the restaurant at least a couple of times a week, just to get his ducks in a row, as it were.  However, while he was there, he could help you get your feet under you.”  Napoleon looked at Illya, then over at Matt.   “And Illya could work with you, Matt, on ordering stuff and the like.  That way it wouldn’t have any impact on you.  If it doesn’t work, we can always drop it, but I think it would be a great way to get folks into the restaurant after the holidays.  That’s always a slow period.”

Rocky was nodding slowly.  “I would help, too.”

“Love to have you.”  Napoleon smiled over at the redhead.  “What do you say, Matt?  Just like the old days?”

“I am... _timorous_.”

“What are you afraid of, sweetie?” Rocky asked, reaching out his good hand to rest on Matt’s arm.

“It sounds perfect.  How could it be?”

“Because we’ll make it that way,” Illya said, smirking.

                                                                                ****

Illya was standing up in front of two dozen women and a dozen men.  He was wearing an apron with the phrase _I always cook with wine and sometimes I even put it in the food_ emblazoned across the front _._ “I still had some stuffing left over, so I looked at the bird.  It’s about fourteen pounds, so what could be wrong with another cup or two of stuff, right?  I called my partner over and told him to hold onto the bird while I crammed it inside.  Now, I am as fond of explosions as the next guy.”  Illya paused for laughter.  “Can anyone tell me why overstuffing a bird is a very bad idea?”

“Stuffing expands,” piped up a young woman.  “Doesn’t it?”

“It does and I was cleaning stuffing from inside the oven for the next week, not to mention little shards of turkey everywhere.  Chef never let me forget that.”

“Did Illya really do that?” Napoleon asked Matt, who was relaxing against the bar.  He looked rested and content.

“No, just the _contrario_.  He refused to stuff it at all, saying that it was a good way to serve your guests food poisoning.”  Matt laughed softly.  “The chef, he was ready to stuff Illya into the oven.”  He nodded to Illya as his audience responded with laughter.  “He knows how to talk to people.”

“He didn’t used to.  He learned that from you.”

“This class, it has been good for business.  We are booked solid for the next two weeks.  People have already asked what we are offering in January.”

“That’s great news.”  Napoleon sipped his wine.  “Has it helped having Illya here?”

 _“Si._   I cannot believe how much he has made a difference.  My staff, they are starting to laugh again and I have not had to hide the butcher knives.”

“That is good news.” 

“And you?  Rocky told me about your own troubles.  Has it helped you?”

Napoleon thought back to last night and the spitfire he’d had in bed.  He didn’t think it was possible for a man his age to climax more than twice in one night.  Illya had proven him wrong.

“If it helped anymore, I’d need a block of ice and a sling.”

Matt laughed and Napoleon joined in.  He was happy and, best of all, so was Illya.    He looked around at the familiar walls of the restaurant and sighed happily.  It was good to be home.

 

 

 


End file.
